Pinned and Formulated
by Papilium
Summary: AU. Dexter inspired one-shot. Gatsby will have her through any means necessary. Dead or alive. Various parts of Daisy, floating in a jar of formaldehyde by his bedside table. But first, he must kill the other unfaithfuls. Harvest their organs to build his fortune. Warnings: Necrophilia, Rape/non-con, graphic depictions of violence, character death. Gatsby/Daisy Serialkiller!Gatsby


**A/N- Inspired by Dexter. I don't like to cross the line into necrophilia, but the story goes where the story goes.**

 **Warnings: Rape/Non-con, Necrophilia, bloodplay, graphic violence**

 **Summary: Basically, Gatsby goes on a killing spree. Women who have moved on from their first loves because of the war. He sells their organs on the black-market through Wolfsheim.**

* * *

 **Pinned and Formulated**

March Avery. 23. Five foot three inches.

Overall assessment? Average.

Gatsby smiled enchantingly at her against the crowded, smoke-filled room. She drew in a long cloud of smoke and exhaled sweet smog; bright blue eyes gleaming coquettishly overtop her glass. She had not come alone. Gatsby flitted among the crowd like an apparition- appearing to greet, retreating, appearing to drink.

Most people assumed that he didn't know who they were. Most people assumed they were welcome to invite themselves to his party. But most people assumed too much.

The fact was, Gatsby knew each and every face within the throng of drunk, smoking women and equally inebriated and smoking men. There, leaning against the railing, wedding ring glinting in the soft hazy light was Lola Sparks, flirting with William Elliot. Taken, both of them.

But fidelity means nothing in the limelight. He admired them.

Jay Gatsby grabbed a fine red wine from off the tray of a drifting servant, taking an indecently luxurious draught as he sauntered across the patio. Glancing up, he noticed that March had followed him with her unabashed eyes. Gatsby carefully undressed her with his. She blushed.

Her partner, George Avery, tilted his head in an unasked question. He opened his mouth to ask it. She was gone.

Wispy pale tulle, draped over her pencil-form, fluttered in the ocean's breath. She sidled up alongside him, drawing the log feminine cigarette back into her cherry red mouth. He turned his back to her and walked inside his mansion. He did not need to turn around to know she had followed. They were all like cats.

Dangle a string of yarn in front of them and...then there's the saying.

* * *

"Gatsby... _Jay_ Gatsby," March drawled, entering into the room her host had entered and clicking shut the door behind them.

"That's right," Jay smiled, back to her, "Let's pretend I'm really Jay Gatsby. What should I call you, kitten?"

"March," she purred, drifting further into the room. "Although I don't mind kitten...I rather like cats. All soft fur, scratch behind the ears and they just _melt_."

Jay turned with an appraisingly look in his eyes.

"It's a shame then," he murmured, "that kittens are so... _impatient_."

Gatsby held her chin, gently, between his forefinger and thumb. She shivered beneath his touch, but only because it was with the knowledge that it was one of the wealthiest men on West Egg.

"Oh yes, yes..."

Jay smirked, "So, wanting. So needy. So _sensitive_." His voice was low, like slowly melting sugar pane into liquid caramel. No one could hope to hear them over the thrum of swinging jazz. Even March had to strain to hear, her attention focused on exactly one point. Him.

" _Jay_..."

He drew back. "On the floor, kitten."

She got down on her knees.

"In the corner."

She crawled.

There was a plastic sheet laid down. It touched her perspiring skin and crinkled against the distant sound of music and gaiety.

"Eyes shut."

" _Yes._ " Breathy, needy.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions."

"Al-alright."

"Are you married?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter! Jay, I won't tell! Promise!"

He trailed his finger across her jawline, tracing over her lips with his thumb.

"Quiet," he commanded, "Have you ever been in love?"

She squirmed. A sharp slap resounded throughout the room.

"Y-Yes."

"When?"

"Are we still playin-" a thumb pressed harshly against the pulsing artery in her neck. She stilled. Smart woman.

"We're not playing," Jay smiled. "At least, I'm not, kitten."

Bright blue eyes snapped open like a butterfly's wings. "Get. Off. Of. Me." Sandpaper scratch, sexuality superseded with fear.

"You said you wouldn't tell," Gatsby mocked liltingly.

More pressure. Panting.

"What's it to you?"

"Curious." A bead of blood. A glint of silver in the light.

Struggling. "Yes. Before the war. A man named-"

"A man named John Wall."

"Why, yes. How-"

"And now married to George Avery. My my, not very faithful are you, kitten?"

"It was- before- the- war!" she bit out. "We- weren't even engaged! Release me this instant!" She snarled.

A hand on her abdomen. "Cervix, Kidney, Liver..."

Shaking now. Quivering beneath his cold hands, roaming over her skin. "Heart. Such a valuable piece of machinery. So empty."

More shapes in thin bloody lines. Sharp intakes of breath.

"Why didn't you wait?" That was an order wrapped in soft cotton whispers.

"Impatient, remember?" She spat at him. Defiantly till the very last.

* * *

"I'll pick it up tomorrow."

"Thanks Wolfsheim."

Gatsby held the crinkled list in hand. March Avery was slashed out. The list was crumpled in his fist. There was one more to go.

* * *

Knocks.

"-Hello, I am a reporter for the Egg Times, I was wondering if you could give us any information regarding the Disappearances-"

"Disappearances?"

"Oh yes, sir. The murders of several young women this past month. Do you happen to keep a list of all your guests? You know, to your parties?"

"Why?"

"Well, no offense to you, but there may be a connection-"

"You don't think _I_ did it, do you?"

"No no no! But perhaps you've seen something? Several guests have testified that they've seen these victims at your parties just before they've, well, _vanished_. Some have identified a shiny black car."

 _(Wolfsheim's car)_

"No. I'm so. Very very sorry. I can't help."

"-Wait! Please! Just a minute more. We fear it may be the work of a psychopath out for revenge. All victims are around twenty years of age, some even engaged or married before the war, but are now married to others. You wouldn't happen to-"

The door shut.

"I cannot help you."

* * *

Lively dancing under the stars. Nick shifted uncomfortably. It felt dark here. It felt...like a great shadow hovered over the sparkling drinks, fountains, crystals, and dresses.

Jay materialized beside him.

"They say you've killed a man," Nick stated apathetically.

"Men don't do it for me," Gatsby whispered.

"What does?"

"Where's Daisy?"

"Out dancing."

"Excuse me."

Gatsby dreamed often of her, formaldehyde saturating her blood-evacuated limbs...

"Jay!"

"Daisy, do you know this man?"

"Forgive me, my name is Jay Gatsby. This is my house."

Tom Bucchanon ground his teeth together. His jaw snapped.

"Daisy, dear, why don't you get us some drinks?" Tom asked, eyes never straying from Gatsby's.

"I didn't want her to come tonight." Tom remarked casually. "The Disappearances, you understand."

Gatsby considered him. "Yes, the murders."

"Had a guy asking me about them the other day. Some reporter from the Egg Times," Tom muttered.

"Did you have anything to tell him?"

"No. I have no proof."

Tom's eyes locked onto Gatsby's. Understanding, like a bullet, stabbed each in turn.

Daisy returned with blood red drinks. "Let's have a toast!"

* * *

Today was the day. Sheets were laid out, large clear plastic tarps.

( _You can't repeat the past...but I do it every day)_

Daisy would come at exactly three pm like she had for the past week. Gatsby smiled a small chilling smile, a feral grin stolen from the mouth of Hades, sharp canines borrowed from the maws of Cerberus.

( _You ask too much...I ask nothing at all)_

Daisy would be his masterpiece. He would have her heart. Beating wildly against him. Throbbing with blood. Sloosh! Sloosh! Sloosh! Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Oh, Jay, it's really...lovely." Daisy smiled slightly, turning page after page of his album of her. Old, coffee stained letters, photos snapped in the dead of night, bits of used napkin, newspaper clippings, photos of her house, photos of her, photos of her... "Oh dear, I'm a bit cold." Daisy shivered, involuntarily clutching herself around the waist. Thin white dress swathing pale creamy unblemished perfect skin.

"Come with me, there's a fire just this way."

He didn't need to look behind him. They always followed. They always came. Gatsby lead her into the room with the plastic.

"Is this your bedroom?"

"One of them," Gatsby smirked. "I am...renovating for the moment. The tarps are for the dust."

"Oh..." She shivered.

"Have you seen my wardrobe? They're filled with only the best designer fashions. I have a friend who sends me new clothes at the beginning of each season."

"Oh!"

They were flying. Reds, blues, greens, yellow, pinks, whites, blacks, fluttering in the air like great clouds against the plastic-wrapped grey sky.

"You like them?" Jay wondered as she curled on his bed like a cat, tears falling on the red shirt clutched in her hands.

"They're-They're s-such lovely shirts!" Labored breath, furious blinking.

Jay sat softly on the bed next to her, the plastic beneath them warming to the contact. He stuck his nose within her perfumed hair and inhaled her scent of freshly crushed rose petals and incense.

"G-Gatsby?"

"Call me Jay, Daisy, call me Jay."

A hand coming up to rest atop her chest.

"J-Jay..."

"Shhh..."

Crinkling plastic wrap. Shirts lifelessly crumbled on the floor like a hundred bodies shot midair, midaction.

Hands came up to cup her cheeks, petting her hair back against her well-formed scalp. Her heart, beating, beating frantically like a butterfly trapped in a jar above a fire. The heat, slowly killing it, making its delicate blood boil, veins on fire. Fluttering wildly, weakly, desperately.

"Daisy," he breathed.

"Jay," she trembled.

Hands roamed beneath her tulle, undergarments surrendered and fell. The assault continued. He splayed his open palm against her flat cold stomach.

"Ovaries, Cervix, Pancreas, Liver, Lungs, _Heart._ "

( _J-Jay! Jay! Struggling weakly. Struggling wildly. Struggling desperately. JAY!)_

"I wonder how much are you worth?"

"Jay?"

"On the black-market. Your organs. How much do you think you're worth Daisy?"

He traced over her heart, over her drooping breasts..."Certainly not enough to render a sane man insane. Not enough to goad me into killing the wanderers. Not enough to make me take their bodies, fling their remains into the ocean, slice open their souls, one by one."

"Gatsby!"

"IT'S JAY."

Strangulation. There were no stars, yet her vision was full of them, popping into existence, supernovas cascading across her closing lids.

"My dear Daisy." Dress flung aside, heart palpitating harder than it had ever before. Knowing, somehow, that it's time was at an end.

He took her.

( _No more gasps. No more beats. Glassy eyes, he had pried the lids back open.)_

He undid his trousers. Those fell to the floor. Bared his chest, draped himself over her. Took her lips.

( _Kissed her mouth, so cold. Squeezed them together in euphoric insanity. Sliced them off. Flung aside.)_

Entered her unprotesting body, pushed past her entrance with his half-engorged length. Heavenly. Gazed into her lovely jeweled eyes, cringed at her lipless, bloodied, bleeding hole. Stuffed it with his _lovely shirts_.

He rode her slowly, a rhythmic pumping of in and out.

( _You ask too much. You ask too much. I loved him...but I also loved you. You ask too much.)_

I ask what is mine. I take what is mine. MINE.

M.I.N.E.

Branded bright red into her skin.

The carving came later.

He skinned her skillfully. Starting with the toes, exposing her delicate ankles, working his way up. The room stunk with the stench of inhuman destruction. With the brutality of the human soul. Flesh coated the floor. So much blood. Pouring out of her like she was made of nothing but blood. Where was the soul? Where was Daisy's soul?

The head was lopped off in three neat cuts.

Then nothing was left but the heart, still and heavy in his palm.

Gatsby exited the room sometime later and took a long steaming shower. The drain ran red with Daisy. He tasted it, the copper and iron, as he breathed the putrid air.

He licked his lips.

* * *

Nick and Tom gazed at each other a moment before nodding in mutual decision. They were prepared to break the door, but the entrance was unlocked as if the house was beckoning, drawing them further into its depths.

Another exchanged glance. They continued.

The stench hit them first. It was the smell of decaying flesh. Of a maggot's feast, of a carcass and all its essence. They found the room first.

It was ajar and casted a soft eerie light upon the hallway floor. It flickered twice. Blinked at them. _Winked_ at them. Covering their mouths, the two men entered.

Then, they fell.

On the bed was a skeleton, stripped of its flesh, resting atop a clear plastic cover on the bed. It's gaze was on the door. Maggots clung to it, the fat ones, engorged with blood, fell onto the plastic tarp and wriggled. A black cloud of flies hovered over a clear piper filled with skin and muscle and fat...

Neither man spoke the unspoken thought. The silent woman. Daisy. Was that her?

They slammed the door shut.

Tom panted against the wall. Nick emptied his stomach upon the floor.

"I will kill him," Tom growled lowly. "I will rip him apart with my bare hands!"

They glanced once at the door, and never once looked back.

They pushed open the next door, the fifth master bedroom. The one overlooking the other Egg.

A jar gleamed on the bedside table, the huddled form of Jay Gatsby snoring on the ground.

Nick stared at the jar, paralyzed, as Tom- with his brute strength- shoved Gatsby up against the wall by his neck. Had him pinned.

Gatsby's eyes snapped open, gleaming with triumph. Tom shook him roughly.

"Speak you bastard! Tell me what you did!"

And Gatsby did speak. He opened his mouth and sang, "And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?"

"BASTARD!"

But Nick was already occupied with the jar. He held the polished glass in hand and stared at the formaldehyde pool.

Fingertips.

Eyes.

Heart.

Nick frowned in concentration, bent his head in silent prayer. Tom kicked Gatsby in the background.

"SPEAK SENSE DAMMIT."

"Fingertips so that she may touch only me. Eyes so that she may see only me. Heart so that she may love only me."

"I've had enough of your nonsense you no good Son-of-a-Bitch!"

"Old Sport. Old Sport. Old Sport!"

A list came fluttering out of his pocket, the names slashed off with dim, dried blood.

"She never loved me..."

And Gatsby broke.

* * *

 **A/N- "** And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?"- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


End file.
